


i wanna sleep next to you (and that's all i wanna do right now)

by crossroadswrite



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coda, Drunk Victor Nikiforov, Drunkenness, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Katsuki Yuuri taking care of his clingy drunk boyfriend is everything to me, M/M, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Post Season 1, banquet fic, this fic is the flimsiest excuse i could come up with to have yuuri bodily carry victor, this is smth i need pls dont question it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 06:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/pseuds/crossroadswrite
Summary: “Vitya,” he starts, very slowly as Victor smiles at him sloppily, “what are you doing?”“I thought you were never ever ever ever coming back ever, so I panicked.”(Or: the post Barcelona Grand Prix fic that I desperately needed, in which Victor gets very drunk and Yuuri takes care of him.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, and as always, the biggest thank you to [LadyDrace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace), my beacon of light in the swirling void. Thanks for always beta-ing my stuff ily.
> 
> Title taken from [TALK ME DOWN by Troye Sivan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lo3lxS-6joY).

Victor is drunk. Victor is really, _really_ drunk, and it’s partially Yuuri’s fault.

Here is how it went: they arrived at the banquet, their shoulders touching, Victor’s fingers twitching against the back of Yuuri’s hand every time he felt the impulse to hold it but held himself back, still a little resentful of Yuuri; they talked to their friends, to skating officials, and most importantly to some sponsors which Yuuri had never been that great at schmoozing but Victor more than made up for it; people tried to get Yuuri drunk, and every time a flute of champagne or some fruity drink from the open bar was thrust into his hand he’d push it into Victor’s.

“Yuuri,” Victor whines, leaning most of his weight into Yuuri’s side. “Let’s go to the hot springs, Yuuri!”

Yuuri has a hand wrapped around his waist and the other prying Victor’s clumsy fingers from the buttons of his shirt.

“ _Yuu_ ri,” Victor pouts. “You can’t go in the hot springs with your clothes on,” he says, and tries to get his hands on Yuuri’s buttons again.

“There’s no hot springs here, Victor,” Yuuri says, prying his hand away for the nth time and looking around the room for help.

Victor goes still and looks around. “Where did the hot springs go? We have- we have to _find them_. Oh no.”

“In a moment,” Yuuri says, because he knows it’s more effective than arguing with Victor when he’s like this.

Victor hums and sags, letting himself drop until he can rest his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, and leaving Yuuri scrambling to hold him up and not let him fall on the floor in a heap of disgruntled Russian boy.

“Victor, stand up.” He hooks two fingers in Victor’s belt loops and attempts tugging a little to see if Victor gets the idea. Victor does not. “Come on, you’re heavy.”

Victor exhales directly into Yuuri’s neck and starts rubbing his cheek against the tailored suit he insisted to buy for Yuuri. “Hmm, you’re _pretty_.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re still pretty,” Victor mumbles, craning his neck until his lips touch Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri shies away from the soft touch. “ _Victor!_ ”

Victor looks at him with lidded, vulnerable eyes, wide and attentive, focused on Yuuri, always focused on Yuuri, and Yuuri is so _so_ weak.

“Let’s find a place to sit, yes?”

Victor sighs and wraps his arms around Yuuri, squeezing until it gets a little hard to breathe. “Whatever you want.”

Yuuri manages to situate Victor in a chair, and _almost_ manages to pry Victor off of him. He’s a tactile person on normal occasions, but when he’s drunk Victor is the absolute clingiest person on the planet.

“Victor, I need to go find your jacket, the key to our room is in there.”

“No,” Victor whines, dragging out the ‘o’ obnoxiously. He gets his arms around Yuuri’s waist and pulls until Yuuri stumbles into his lap.

“Victor.”

“No.”

“ _Victor_.”

“ _No._ ”

Yuuri sighs, gets his hands on Victor’s jaw and tips his face upwards, tries a different approach. “Vitya?”

There’s a pause in which Victor blinks up sweetly at him. “Yes?”

Like this Victor’s chin digs uncomfortable into his breastbone, and Yuuri can feel the way his mouth shapes words when his jaw moves.

“Vitya,” Yuuri starts, uses his gentlest tone to match the way Victor is looking up at him with his alcohol clouded eyes and his painfully open and trusting expression. “I need to go get our room key and tell some people we’re leaving, okay? You have to let go of me.”

Victor’s face twists into a pout. Yuuri looks heavenwards for strength.

“What the fuck are you two losers doing? You’re embarrassing yourselves, and me!”

Yuuri’s head snaps to the side, and he’s never been happier to see Yuri in his life.

“Ah, Yurio, can you help me?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“The quicker I get our stuff and say goodbye to who I need to, the quicker we’ll be gone.”

Yuri glares for two solid seconds, throwing Victor a disgusted look. “Whatever. What do I need to do to get you to get out of my fucking sight?”

“Just-“ Yuuri wraps his hands around Victor’s arms and forcefully yanks them away, pushing Yuri into where he had been standing. “Keep him distracted. I’ll take two minutes, okay.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor whines sadly, his voice breaking a little over the word and Yuuri flinches, hurries away as fast as he can so he can get Victor to their room and into bed.

Luckily, he knows exactly where Victor dropped off his jacket, and makes a direct line to it.

“Yuuri!” Chris calls. “Leaving already?”

Yuuri folds the jacket over his arm and turns to Chris.

“Sorry, I should get Victor back to our room before-“

“What the fuck are you doing!” Yuri screeches from across the room. “Get down from there, are you insane?!”

Yuuri doesn’t dare turn to see what the damage is.

Chris is looking over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Wow.”

Phichit materializes next to Chris, phone held expertly as he snaps pictures. “Amazing!”

“This isn’t funny.”

“ _Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuri_ , I’m dying! Please save me.” Victor shouts.

Phichit snickers. “You should go save your husband before he falls off that table and smacks his head.”

Yuuri whirls around and Victor Nikiforov, Russian hero and living legend, is, indeed, standing on top of a table, spinning around on unsteady feet.

“ _Ohmygod,”_ Yuuri whispers. “He’s going to kill himself, what is he _doing_?”

He’s across the room in record time.

Victor is still spinning around as Yuri tries to get him to stop.

“Vitya,” Yuuri calls, because that’s the quickest way to get his attention.

Victor’s entire body snaps towards him, and he stumbles. For two heart-stopping seconds where Yuuri is sure Victor is going to fall face first on the floor and split his head open; his heart crawls his way into his throat and makes him nauseous, panic clawing at his throat. But then Victor’s hands are on his shoulders, steadying himself and Yuuri _somehow_ manages to gets his hands on Victor’s hips, securing him in place.

Yuuri exhales heavily, the switch from panic to relief making him a little lightheaded.

“Vitya,” he starts, very slowly as Victor smiles at him sloppily, “what are you doing?”

“I thought you were never ever ever ever coming back ever, so I panicked,” Victor says, reasonably.

“Right. Of course.” Yuuri takes a steadying breath. “And do you want to come down from there?”

“Okay!” Victor chirps.

Yuuri sighs and lets go of his hips.

Well, that was easy.

Apparently, too easy because before Yuuri can really process what he’s doing, Victor jumps off the table and directly on Yuuri, wrapping his legs around his middle and making him stumble.

Yuuri just barely manages to regain his equilibrium and keep them both upright, hands instinctively wrapping around Victor’s thighs to keep him from falling.

Victor is bracing himself on Yuuri’s shoulders by his arms, looking down at him, pleased as punch.

“I got down from the table!”

Yuuri blows out a breath, looking up at this mess of a boy. “So you did.”

“I hope you both die in a house fire,” Yuri spits and Yuuri turns to look at him.

“Ah, Yurio. Could you pick up his jacket and give me the keycard. I can’t really-“

“Pick it up your own damn self!”

“I can’t.”

“Drop him.”

Yuuri takes his hands off Victor’s thighs and holds them up. Victor remains in place, clinging to him like a koala.

“I can’t,” he repeats.

Yuri makes a noise in his throat somewhere between a boiling kettle and a growl. He picks up his jacket and throws it at them. It lands on Yuuri’s face and Victor laughs, pulling it off and kissing his forehead.  

“Yuuri! I found you!”

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I ha-“ Yuri spits, briskly walking away.

“See you tomorrow at breakfast, Yurio! Bring your new friend, if you want.”

“Fuck the shit off!”

Yuuri presses down on a smile, readjusts his grip on Victor.

Victor is a little too heavy and a little too tall for Yuuri to be carrying him like this, and he takes a second to thank all the upper body conditioning he had to do in Detroit for his pole dancing classes.

Like this, there’s no way Yuuri can make his way back to their room, but the chances of Victor making it there by foot are rapidly decreasing as he grows heavier in his arms.

Making a decision, he walks a couple steps forward until he can deposit Victor on the table. It’s not easy to coach 180 cm of Russian living legend to relinquish his vice grip on your waist, but Yuuri has been with Victor for a long time now. He has months of knowledge in his back pocket, and he knows that all he needs to do is run his hands up his thighs and press his thumbs just _so_ on this sweet little spot Victor has, to get him to open his legs for him.

“ _Yuu_ ri,” Victor breathes, leaning forward.

Yuuri turns in his arms and hooks his hands under his thighs, lifting him up onto his back.

“Yuuri, you tricked me,” Victor says.

“Did I?”

“ _Yuuri_.”

“Yes?”

Yuuri likes how Victor says his name, and he likes that Victor manages to shape it in different ways, giving it different meanings depending on which syllable he stresses and how he stresses them.

Right now he’s shaping it into the insistent tug of a sleeve that begs for attention.

They pass through the ballroom’s double doors and duck into a little hallway, away from any main public spaces and possible press. There’s a discreet elevator in it, and Yuuri thanks whoever designed this building that they had the forethought to take sloppy drunks into consideration.

Yuuri presses Victor’s knee against the switch, given that he has his hands full, and watches the panel over the door light up.

“Did I do something bad?” Victor asks, pressing the side of his face against Yuuri’s cheek and rubbing a little.

“Of course not.”

“Are you mad at me for getting drunk?”

“Would you be mad at me?”

“No, I like it when you’re drunk. Less clothes.”

Yuuri flushes, trying to will the embarrassment of what had happened the previous year down, and stepping resolutely on it.

“I’m not mad.”

Victor sighs, this tired relieved thing. “You’ll stay with me, then?”

“Of course.”

The elevator’s doors ping open and Yuuri steps inside and sits Victor on the railing that lines the walls so he can free a hand to press their floor’s button.

“That’s good. I _hate_ it when you leave.”

Yuuri still has the image of Victor crying imprinted behind his eyelids, and the crushing feelings that come with it claw their way up his throat until he chokes on them.

“Yeah,” he says, very softly and very quietly. “Me too.”

Victor holds him a little tighter and presses his mouth against the bend of Yuuri’s neck. It’s not a kiss, not _really_. Just another point of contact between them.

It’s quiet between them, and Yuuri takes his breaths as measuredly as he can, letting the hum of soft commercial jazz filter through the elevator’s speakers.

They arrive to their floor smoothly, and the doors open for them. Yuuri readjusts his grip and hikes Victor up before he steps out.

Their room isn’t too far from the elevator, which is another small mercy, and after some juggling Yuuri manages to slip the keycard out of the jacket Victor is still clutching, and open the door.

He kicks it shut with his heel, and deposits Victor on a bed, falling backwards with him when Victor refuses to let go.

“Victor-“

“Stay by me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, but we need to get out of these suits. They’re very nice and you’ll be upset when they’re wrinkled in the morning.”

Victor groans but lets go of him.

Yuuri stands up, readjusting to not having a fully groan Russian man’s added weight on him. He bounces on the balls of his feet and rolls his shoulders a little. It’s always a bit weird, the sense of lightness and weightlessness you get after carrying something heavy for an extended period of time.

He toes off his shoes and nudges them towards a corner of the room before making work of his suit and changing into his pajamas, feeling a little more comfortable, a little closer to his own skin. Suits always bring a sort of foreign feeling for him. They’re suffocating. They feel like he’s telling a lie, faking something he’s not, _deceiving_ people into thinking he is any type of collected and composed.

Formal wear isn’t really Yuuri’s specialty, but it _is_ Victor’s.

Victor who hasn’t moved an inch.

“Tired?” Yuuri asks, going to him.

Victor makes a little noise in his throat. He’s staring at the ceiling, unseeing, and Yuuri is almost afraid to disturb him.

He kneels in front of him and works his shoes off; puts them next to his own, and loses more time than it warrants staring at both pairs of shoes together.

Then, he makes work of Victor’s pants, unbuckling the belt and tapping his hip twice. He tries not to dwell on how that’s all it takes for Victor to lift them up. They’re familiar with each other on a level that Yuuri has never had with anyone else, and it’s both completely terrifying and soothing.

Yuuri tries not to get too caught up in that thought and pulls Victors pants down his legs, working them free.

“You were wearing sock garters?” he asks stupidly. “Of course you were, you’re Victor Nikiforov.”

Victor makes another noise, this one sounding a little more distressed and Yuuri pauses in unclasping the sock garters to look up.

“Victor?”

“I don’t wanna.”

Yuuri frowns. “You… don’t wanna… what?”

“Be him. I _hate_ him.”

“Who?”

“ _The_ _Victor Nikiforov_.”

Yuuri does not know what to say to that. He grew up loving Victor Nikiforov, he probably loved him so much he raised him into a deity. He doesn’t know what to do when the man himself tells him he doesn’t want to be him.

“Who do you want to be, then?”

“Yours.”

Yuuri’s heart does something strange and painful. He also doesn’t know what to do with these things; when Victor tells him something that makes his heart constrict but beg him to keep talking, to do it again, because it hurts, but it hurts in the best way, in a way that people chase for years and years.

“Mine?”

“Yuuri’s Victor.”

Yuuri considers this. And then he considers the man who sprawls in front of him, sloppy drunk and sad and yearning and perfect. This Victor isn’t untouchable and ethereal. He’s fallen from a deity to a demigod, in Yuuri’s eyes. Something a little more human, a little more flawed, still wholesomely perfect because of it.

“You can be whoever you want,” he tells him.

Victor raises up on his elbows and looks down at him, eyes wide, a man drowning that can’t quite believe that land is within reach.

“I can?”

“I told you I wanted you to be yourself. And if you want to be my Victor, then you are.”

“Y _uu_ ri,” he says, and this time it’s shaped like hope and love.

He gives him a smile and feels it tremble a little in his lips because this is _so much so much so much_. And Victor leans forward and frames his cheeks and kisses his forehead like Yuuri is made of spun glass filled with something precious.

Yuuri tilts his head and offers his mouth, and Victor takes that too, meets him halfway.

“You are…” words seem to escape him and Victor lapses into a string of Russian words that he spaces with tiny butterfly kisses across Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri shies away with a soft laugh.

“Let’s get you into some pajamas, okay?”

“Okay,” Victor says in a tone that suggests that Yuuri could be asking for him to throw himself off the roof and the answer would be the same.

Yuuri doesn’t dwell on that either, and makes quick work of the sock garters and of his shirt, hanging Victor’s suit in its proper hanger, before he gently coaches him into putting on at least a shirt.

As soon as he’s done, Victor pulls him into bed, holding himself to Yuuri’s chest and curving around him, getting as close as humanly possible.

Yuuri wraps his arms around him and holds him, places the barest of kisses against that one spot on the top of his head.

“Stand by me?” Victor mumbles, and Yuuri can feel the shape of the words and the warmth of his breath over his heartbeat.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

**Author's Note:**

> this has been your daily reminder that victor nikiforov is soft and deserves a lot of love


End file.
